


Pick You Up If You Fall to Pieces

by handcversbruise



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Fluff, M/M, Recovery, Sickfic, Terminal Illnesses, a snapshot into a larger story i alluded to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-24
Updated: 2014-07-24
Packaged: 2018-02-10 06:51:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2015235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/handcversbruise/pseuds/handcversbruise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It gets worse until it gets better.<br/>Or, Louis is sick and Harry doesn't know it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pick You Up If You Fall to Pieces

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nicelittlelarry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicelittlelarry/gifts).



> I picked this from the prompts and I hope it's something you like!!!! 
> 
> I call this a snapshot for a larger story, but I think it works this way. 
> 
> Thank you to my betas for everything, especially A and J. I'll give credit when everyone is revealed! I hope you like it!
> 
> I know nothing about the topic and I tried to research but this is all ridiculously untrue.

“I want to go on an adventure.” Louis’ voice rings loudly throughout the room, echoing in the near silence of the night. He feels Harry shuffle closer to him where they’re laying on the ground, settling into his side until his head is on Louis’ chest, warm and solid.

“We can go on one, whenever you want.” He’s mumbling, tired and sleepy, but Louis can hear the faint smile in his tone, and he knows Harry’s serious, that Harry would pack up and leave right now if it meant being with him, being together. There’s a stinging sensation attached to those words, something that eats away at Louis, because he can’t go on an adventure, probably won’t ever get the chance to. He’s only nineteen, but he’s accepted this, has had a long time to, since the day his parents got a call from the doctors spelling out his prognosis back when he was still too young to understand chemotherapy and survival rates; but that was before this, before Harry made it so much harder to accept the way things are.

Harry throws his arms around Louis’ waist, sloppy and careless, signaling his impending slumber. He feels complete in this moment, laying down next to Harry, gazing at the ceiling that this lovely boy’s decorated with posters of stars and planets so that even though they can’t get away whenever they need it, they have some semblance of peace. Of hope. It doesn’t help much, not usually, but all Louis has to do is ask Harry to make up a story about the constellations and he’ll get so lost in his own words that Louis can hide his pain almost effortlessly. He has nothing to say that wouldn’t ruin the moment, so he chooses silence to hide the truth that’s on the tip of his tongue, ignoring the niggling voice in the back of his head suggesting he tell Harry what’s going on. But then he hears a soft snore, and Louis would have to be a monster to ruin the serenity of the moment.

  


It’s not always _terrible_. Sometimes it’s just bad.

  


There’s a routine to every visit to the hospital by now, and Louis complains about the monotony of his appointments, rolls his eyes every time the nurse greets him at the entrance with a wheelchair,  but knows that if something were to change, it wouldn’t be good. The nurses smile at him like nothing is wrong, making small talk as they prepare him for the most recent set of tests, just checking to make sure nothing new has popped up. They tell him not to worry but he can’t help it. It’s always life or death, because Louis is sick, has been since he was barely a teenager, since he had to be rushed to the hospital because his body wouldn’t stop the fever and he felt too tired to stay awake. He had begged his mother to let him sleep while the paramedics shouted their questions at him, imploring him to stay awake, to let them help. It hadn’t been an easy diagnosis; it took four days in the hospital, tied to IVs and machines that beeped whenever his heart continued to beat - weak and faint but still going -  and Louis doesn’t think the memory of the way the needles pricked his skin - sucking out blood that was probably already damaged - will ever fade away. Eventually it had landed on chronic myelogenous leukemia, a strange conclusion because it rarely happens in people that aren’t older adults, and Louis doesn’t really like hearing that term even now, doesn’t want to think about it, because it’s scary, knowing it’s something he’ll have to deal with for the rest of his life. Something that could kill him whenever it wanted.

  
It’s different now though - he’s beat it once. He just hopes he won’t have to do it again, ever. Because it’s always hard being told that there’s a good chance you’ll die, that there’s _nothing much anyone can do_ to stop your body from destroying itself, but that he’s _got to try anyway_. Louis thinks there might be a time where he’ll have to face this again, where he’ll be Sisyphus carrying the rock up the hill knowing it’ll roll back down, only instead of reaching some existential plateau of higher consciousness where everything will have meaning in its meaninglessness, he’ll say “fuck it’ and give up. He wants to give up now, and he’s not even sick. Well, not that sick. He’s always sort of sick, coughing, sneezing, fever running through his body, draining him of energy, but it’s mostly under control, enough so that he can go take a few classes during the week and go out with Zayn. But only sometimes.

  


Louis should have told Harry by now, but he can’t bring himself to say the words out loud. It terrifies Louis that there’s a chance everything will fall apart, that the thread holding their relationship together is so fragile he’s got to hide such an important part of his life. He’s not ready for the pity that will be permanently etched on Harry’s face, the way his movements will shift from those of someone in love to someone who’s bound to another out of guilt - it’d be worse if Harry cried, and that’s painful in and of itself, but not quite as hurtful as what will happen after, nothing could be as painful as Harry cutting Louis off, leaving him, because who would stay with him when he’s a tragedy waiting to happen? Louis wouldn’t blame him, not at all, because at their age, the last thing they should be worrying about is taking the right medication at the right time, or stressing out about their silly blood cells that don’t function properly. It’s a heavy burden to bear, and Louis does it for his family, for his parents and his sisters more than for himself, but he doesn’t want to put his illness on anyone else. And maybe part of him still thinks he’s going to die, that one day the constant fatigue, or excess bleeding, or the pain, the fucking debilitating pain that’s rendered him immobile so many times before will wear him out. It’s hard enough for him to accept that his family will mourn his loss one day, but he’s dealt with it, badly maybe, but denial’s never been his strong suit, never seemed useful. Harry never chose this, never wanted this life for himself, so Louis keeps quiet and tries his best to deal with his disease on his own.

  


It works until it doesn’t.

  


“And how does that make you feel?” Liam smirks, unprofessionally, raising an eyebrow like he’s challenging Louis to answer the question, sitting back on his plush brown chair as he crosses his legs, and Louis knows he’s asking because it pisses him off. Liam’s a shit counselor. It’s pointless to sit in an office for an hour and a half twice a week to talk about your feelings and your fears, if you ask Louis, because the only thing that’s ever been certain about living is that everybody dies, so there’s nothing to come to terms with, not when he’s never been in denial about the truth, not when his only problem is that he’s had several encounters with death years before others his age. That’s all. He’s not, he’s not even _dead_ , and if things stay the way they have been, he won’t be for a very long time. Therapy’s a comfort for his mother and sisters, a way for them to have access to the inner workings of his mind since Dr. Liam Payne seems to have a loose interpretation of what doctor-patient confidentiality means, with soft brown eyes that Louis might find endearing if he wasn’t relaying Louis’ secrets back and forth. If he had the means, he’d trade Liam in for another counselor, but the universe isn’t on his side in any way, shape, or form, as it is.

“I don’t feel any way about it, it just is.” Louis adjusts himself in the chair opposite Liam, with a look on his face like he’s going for a scowl but ends up more tired than anything. He shrugs, resigned.  “It sucks, yeah, I don’t want to die yet.”

Liam nods, jotting some stuff down on that bright yellow notepad that he lugs around everywhere. Louis pauses, hesitant to continue speaking, much preferring to stick his hands under his thighs, averting Liam’s gaze as much as possible. He hates feeling vulnerable, even if that’s the entire fucking point of this.

“Have you told Harry yet?” Liam inquires, gently, but he knows the answer already. “It’s important to be honest at this time.”

There’s so many things Louis wants to say, but the words are escaping him, and he feels like a child begging his mother to buy him just one more toy that they can’t afford, because Harry’s his prize, his escape, the one thing in this lousy world that remains untouched by Louis’ illness.

It seems like forever before Louis finds the strength to talk again. “I don’t want to lose him, Liam. I’ve already lost everything. Can’t I be selfish just this once?”

There’s no answer to his question, not a concrete one that benefits both parties, because someone’s going to lose no matter what, but Liam nods once again, sympathetically this time. Louis watches as he uncrosses his legs, sets the pad down on the table next to his chair with  ease like he’s done this countless times, and Louis supposes must have mastered the art of physically changing the subject after all the years of giving therapy sessions.

“How are your classes, then?”

Louis smiles so hard his cheeks hurt.

  


When Louis was a very small child, he had to be taken to the hospital because he’d accidentally swallowed stove cleaner, a toxic one, essentially poisoning himself. He’d cried in his room after it happened, because he had no idea how or when this happened or what it was, just knew that he had to deal it quietly to make sure that nobody heard, that his mother wasn’t upset by him, his young mind running wild with thoughts that all concluded the same thing: he was dying. For some reason, he accepted this easily, choosing not to fight it or alert anyone of the way his tongue swelled up, throbbed with pain, the way his entire body felt too hot, like he’d touched the sun and caught on fire. No, little Louis wrote his mom a rather pathetic goodbye note considering he hardly knew how to write, curled up in bed with his favorite stuffed animal and waited. Eventually he’d been found and rushed to the emergency room, where his mouth was rinsed out with antitoxins and he was kept overnight for observation. Sometimes Louis recalls that night, the way his mother had cried and begged to know why he hadn’t told her, but mostly he thinks of how he’d had no qualms about dying, he’d just wanted the burning to stop. It’s been nearly two decades since then, something like 17 years, and Louis still has the scar on his tongue to remind him of the incident. When the pain at night keeps him up too much, when the fevers make his whole body shake and sweat and itch in the way that he can never scratch, he thinks about how he just still only wants it to stop.

  


The sun’s scorching hot on Louis’ back as he climbs, hair sticking to his forehead, sweaty, breaths heavy with the burden of keeping his organs oxygenated even when he’s struggling to follow the pace Harry’s set. Harry’s leading the way up the steep hill, head of hair held back with a ridiculous blue and red heart patterned headband Louis had given him the previous day, in lieu of coming clean about why exactly he was so against going on a hike. But Louis is whipped, dangerously so, unable to resist dazzling smiles and whispered _thank you’s_ as Harry wrapped him up in a tight hug that lingered too long, with wandering hands too gentle to be innocent; Louis had agreed, cheeks flushed as he swatted away Harry’s hands, silencing his conscience that was screaming at him this it was a bad idea because he’s just started a new medication that leaves him nauseated and drowsy. He’s hoping the RedBulls in his bag will keep him awake, energized.

Harry keeps glancing over at Louis, amused gleam in his eyes as he points out how slow the other boy is going. “Come on, slowpoke, at this rate we’ll miss the sunrise.” Louis wants to tell him to shove the sunrise up his ass, but Harry’s dimpled smile melts his heart, so he rolls his eyes, sticks out his tongue, and places one foot in front of the other. It’s too early in the morning for how chipper Harry sounds, and his muscles are burning, trying to fight a losing battle. Harry’s singing as they walk, a song that Louis doesn’t know but his voice is deep and soulful, and it’s like another layer of Harry’s life is on display for Louis. It’s Louis’ favorite sound. It’s not long before his hand finds Louis’, their fingers joining together in a way that gives Louis the tiniest bit of strength to keep going, and he turns his hand over in Harry’s, tracing patterns on the other boy’s skin with his thumb. The trail is steep but not rocky, nothing that Louis has to take great measures to step over, but his doctor’s forbidden him from participating in any strenuous activity, and he’s sure a hike is the very definition of things he’s supposed to stay away from. Harry tugs at his arm and he crashes into the taller boy’s side, stumbling a bit but recovering quickly, resting his head on Harry’s chest and coughing pointedly until Harry smiles and drops his arm around Louis’ shoulder.

“Not all of us can be so physically fit, y’know.” Louis’ heart is pounding in his chest and he’s surprised at how breathless he sounds. He won’t quit, not when this is so important to Harry.

“You’re all kinds of fit, though.” Harry bites his lip to cover up a smile. Louis is dating an idiot, an adorable, awkward, perfect person who he’s undeserving of.

Louis ducks his head to cover the blush heating up his cheeks. “Cheeky. Stop trying to seduce me and walk, Styles.” He just has to make it to the top.

He lets Harry control most of the conversation after that, paying close attention to the scientific names of the flowers and plants Harry stops to point out, memorizing the way Harry’s green eyes shine when he picks up a pretty purple flower and tries to tie it onto Louis’ hair, falling off not two seconds afterwards. It’s nearing the end of the trail when Louis can’t do it anymore. He has to reach out for Harry’s hand to keep steady, because his body’s not working, his eyes are closing, his lungs aren’t getting enough oxygen, and -

“Louis?” Harry sounds scared. “Are you okay?”

Louis doesn’t reply, because his whole world is dark.

  


There’s a moment where the voices whispering in his ear might belong to angels, but they might belong to little girls crying over their brother. Louis hopes it’s angels.

  


Waking up is difficult, his eyes feel sluggish, throat dry, and the first thing that registers is that the lights in the room are too bright to be his. There’s a faint beeping surrounding him, the itchy material of a hospital gown scratching at his skin, all too uncomfortable yet familiar. He wants to be relieved because he’s obviously alive, and he is on some level happy about this, but there was that small hope looming in his thoughts that it was finally over. He scans the room without moving his head first, taking in the flowers on his table, various items signaling the presence of his family members. His head is hurting like nothing he’s ever felt before, the brightness of the fluorescent lighting inciting what’s sure to be a migraine, distracting him from seeing Zayn and Niall sitting in a corner until Zayn’s running towards him with a frown on his face.

“You fucking scared me, you fucking asshole!” Zayn’s voice cracks but then he’s slapping Louis upside the head before he can even respond. Niall gasps, but Zayn doesn’t stop. “Don’t you ever dare - “ he cuts off, choking back a sob and leaning over the rails of the bed to engulf Louis in a tight hug. His bones hurt but Zayn’s warm, Zayn’s _here_ , smelling like Gucci, yelling at him for almost dying. It’s confusing, and he’s groggy, a side effect of the medications he’s presumedly on; when he tries to move, he feels the tug of the IVs on his veins. He’s terrified of asking Zayn what happened, where his family is, where - Harry is. Zayn’s still whimpering onto his chest, mumbling terms of endearments mixed with insults, and Louis is running his hand through his hair, relishing the comfort. Niall clears his throat from where he’s standing a little ways away from Zayn and Louis. He’s shifting from foot to foot, nervous, but smiling at Louis with relief. Louis tilts his chin up, waving for Niall to come closer.

It’s silent when all three get settled, Louis still not speaking because he doesn’t want to cry yet. It’s not until Louis feels like he’s going to fall back asleep that they tell him what happened; they tell him that he fainted during the hike, that he had nearly died from lack of oxygen and overexertion, that Harry had called the police, the ambulance, everyone and anyone trying to get help. Zayn holds Louis’ hand as he mentions that Harry had waited for Louis to wake up for three days before going home and that he hadn’t come back yet. Niall interrupts to say that Harry will come back. Louis has no strength left in him to argue otherwise.

  


The clock on the wall keeps ticking but time doesn’t seem to be moving faster. Louis keeps staring, willing it to say that time’s up, he can go home, and leave Liam’s stupid questions behind. No such luck, it seems, because Liam keeps tapping at his notepad with his pencil and Louis wants to break it.

“You’re starting chemo this week, aren’t you?” Liam tries, cheerful tone like he’s not aware that Louis is actually dying this time.

Louis glares.

Liam’s unfazed by this though, persistent in his line of questioning. “Have you spoken with Dr. Amelia yet? Your mother said she was the one handling your treatment.”

It’s been two weeks since he’d been released for outpatient treatment after his fainting spell during the hike with Harry and he’s yet to hear anything from him. His mother had told him that Harry had sat by his bedside the first day, clinging to him in any way possible, crying and begging for Louis to wake up. Harry had been devastated when the doctors had told him it was related to his recent relapse but confused, then angry, although he’d stayed until his parents had come to pick him up two days later. He hadn’t come back after that. He’s also been ignoring Louis, Zayn, and Niall. It’s justified, of course, but whenever Louis had pictured their relationship ending, he always assumed he’d have the chance to say goodbye.

Liam can’t read his thoughts, or pick up on the fact that Louis quite frankly does not give a shit about surviving this time, because he’s blabbering away about statistics and medications and estimated survival time and -

Louis is not a patient person, and he supposes part of that is due to how little time he has. He’s never had ample amounts of time on this planet, and he’s always known his life would be ending years before his time was really up, but it’s never hit him so hard. It’s crap, because his life’s been one hospital stay after another ever since he’d accidentally swallowed stove cleaner, and now it seems like he won’t have the luxury of spending the rest of his life at home. It’s all happening so fast, so suddenly, and Louis is so out of his element that he resents Liam just for being healthy.

“Why do you counsel sick people, Liam?” Louis snaps, surprising the older man out of his monologue. “I mean, you’ve got to know that there’s really nothing you can do for us. We’re all doomed.”

Liam’s face lacks any expression and he stays silent, for some reason making Louis want to scream, because Liam has read books and talked to dozens, maybe even hundreds of people just like Louis, but he’ll never understand. “Do you like knowing that all your patients are going to die? Nah, you probably hope they all live, ‘cause at least that way you’ll keep getting checks, right?”

Louis stands up, because sitting down isn’t enough any more. He avoids eye contact with Liam, choosing to focus on the fire bubbling at the bottom of his stomach, fueling him. “How can you sit there and ask me these pointless questions about my life and my classes and Harry like we’re both unaware of the fact that I’m never going to be normal? That I’m not going to see past 23, and that’s if I’m ridiculously lucky?” Louis is practically running around the office now, getting more and more upset at the pictures Liam has on his walls, on his bookshelves, the moments he’s chosen to capture are the very ones that Louis can’t have. He wants to smash them, wants to break something so Liam will understand why he can’t allow himself to care about the results of this treatment, because if he cares, then. Then the truth won’t be manageable anymore.

Louis sniffles after a while, weak and tired from the sudden outburst that he can’t really explain, the fire that had sizzled through his veins, burning everything in its path until there was nothing left but exhaustion, fading out out in one swift move as he bows his head and sits back down on the chair he’s come to spend so much time in. “Do you ever just ask yourself why me? Did I do something for God to want to kill me off in such a sick way?”

Liam hesitates, a stricken look on his face that leaves Louis wondering if he’d never heard anyone ask him that before. He clears his throat but doesn’t answer, not until Louis raises an eyebrow expectantly. “I don’t know why.”

Louis shrugs at him before slinking out of the chair, nodding once at Liam, and exiting the room.

  


The door slams in his face on a sunny morning, and it hurts more than he expected it to.

  


He’s luckier the second time around, because Harry’s parents let him inside their house, though Harry won’t let him inside his room. Louis doesn’t mind talking to a door if it means Harry listens. So he talks, and talks, and tells Harry that he’s sorry for not telling him sooner, that it was selfish to try and hide something so serious from someone so important, but that he had no idea what else to do. That telling Harry would have made it worse, because it would have changed their relationship, changed the way Harry looked at him, and Louis would rather have died than be pitied by him.

It’s the wrong this to say, apparently, because Harry pulls open the door at that, eyes wide, angry.

“Why didn’t you think to tell me that you had fucking cancer, Louis?”

Harry’s furious, his eyes bulging out, hand gripping his hair tightly as he travels back into his bedroom, not inviting Louis in but leaving the door open. “I mean, I’m sure you could have found some time to mention it. We’ve spent the better part of six months together.” Louis is shaking by Harry’s bedroom door, nervous energy resonating throughout his body, he’s frozen. He’s nauseous too, but it’s worse than usual and he’s not sure if it’s the new round of chemo he’s just started or the fact that he’s face to face with Harry for the first time since the accident.

He bites back replying that he’d been in remission when they’d begun dating, because no one likes a smartass, opting for nodding at the floor like it’s the one talking to him right now. Staying silent is a role reversal like Louis has never seen before, because he never even imagined Harry was possible of looking like this - nostrils flared, cold green eyes with bags underneath like he’s not slept in days, nothing like the happy boy Louis has grown terribly fond of. Harry seems incredulous at his silence, rolling his eyes, nearly hysterical in his increasing desperation to get something out of him, pacing around the room like he can’t bare to stand directly in front of Louis.

“Fuck. You can’t even say anything.” Harry shakes his head at him like he’s scolding a small child. Louis can’t do anything but shrink into himself, hoping to make himself so small that he’ll sink through the floor and escape. “Did I even matter? Did you care?”

Harry’s words feel like a slap in the face, his tone violent and angry - confirmation that Harry hadn’t actually been listening when Louis talked to his door. That is _not_ fair, not when Louis is the one groveling at Harry’s feet for keeping a secret so he could keep Harry a little while longer.

“What the fuck, Haz?” Louis’ blood is boiling, hands balling up into tight fists. “This isn’t about you!” His arms swing almost uncontrollably, reaching out for Harry, aiming to pull him close, push him away, sheer desperation taking over his mannerisms but Harry just dodges his attempts at contact.

Louis’ voice is so, so small, when he meets Harry’s eyes. “Don’t you know that the hardest part about this is leaving you?”

Harry frowns, stepping even further back from Louis like he’s been bitten. “Did you just fucking quote My Chemical Romance at me? Are you that fucked up that you can’t take this seriously?”

“ _This is not about you_! This never has been!” Louis’ voice is cracking, and he’s started shaking, and now he can’t stop yelling, can’t stop crying, because his resolve is as broken as he is. “I don’t want to die, Harry. I just don’t.”

He doesn’t know when he falls to the floor, curled up in the fetal position, but he does, and Louis is so exhausted, physically incapable of holding himself up, that he can’t bother being ashamed. He can feel Harry’s careful footsteps creeping up next to him, slowly, like he’s trying not to scare him off. Louis almost laughs, wiping away a tear that’s staining his cheek instead, because there’s no way in hell he’d ever run away from Harry. It’s taken him a lot just to stand up and argue for himself, to try and prove to Harry that he’d made a mistake in keeping his illness hidden and that he’s sorry. Now he’s got nothing left.

They sit in silence for a long time, until Harry’s hands dig under his side to try and get Louis sitting upright. Harry sighs once they’re in position, drops his head to Louis’ shoulder, and Louis welcomes the touch, grateful for it.

“Do you remember how we met?” Harry’s hunching over so he can rest his head in the crook of Louis’ neck, and for once the body heat is welcome completely.

Louis nods. “‘Course I do. You spilled tea all over me and then tried to take your pants off as an apology.” It’s a longer story than that, filled with immediate banter, nasty burns on Louis’ thighs, followed by study dates that turned into more so easily that they’d never had a chance to resist.

Harry laughs and it feels like _I’m sorry_.  “I love you, you know?” Harry’s mumbling the words into Louis’ neck, and Louis wonders if that’s supposed to make the statement less meaningful.

“Yeah. I know.” Louis loves him too. So much. “You shouldn’t say it, though.”

Harry frowns at that, pouting and hugging Louis so tight he can’t breathe. Louis doesn’t mind.

“That won’t change how I feel, Louis. You know that.” Harry’s being so serious that Louis shivers, goosebumps lining his arms and his instinct is to turn it around into something that’s got less baggage, but. He’d have to be a monster to ruin this moment.

Louis reaches for Harry’s hand again, bringing it up to press a soft kiss to back of it and Harry just snuggles closer to him. “I’ll try, you know. To get better.”

Louis knows better than to make promises he can’t keep. He’s seen so many families and friends devastated after losing someone they thought they could keep, and this whole time he’s been afraid of doing the same to Harry. He can’t help but hope, though. Even if it’s in vain.

  
  


It gets worse until it gets better.


End file.
